


Hawke v. Tethras (Motion for Shared Custody of 'Trip')

by FeoplePeel



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Mabari Puppies, Minor Fenris/Isabela, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 19:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7067764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeoplePeel/pseuds/FeoplePeel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In times of war, one needs a war hound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hawke v. Tethras (Motion for Shared Custody of 'Trip')

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vehlr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/gifts).



> For a wild card prompt! I snooped around vehlr's tumblr (as she can attest from the several anon messages I sent her) and got a feel for what she might like to read. This is the result! Thanks to [kazzashepard](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kazzashepard/pseuds/kazzashepard) for betaing and [Wren](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wren/pseuds/wren) for cheering me on <3
> 
> Vehlr, it's been an absolute delight following you first for research purposes, then because your writing was too good! I'm thrilled I'll finally get to reply to you under my own username, without fear of saying something that might give me away (because I am actually terrible at keeping things like this a secret, heh). I hope you enjoy!

“Surprised you’re not kissing the ground, Bran.” Varric said the second they stepped foot on dry land.

“Very funny, messere.” Bran raised an eyebrow, depositing a squirming bundle into the Viscount’s arms.

“I wasn’t joking,” Varric snorted, adjusting the blankets and making hushing noises.

“Tell me you didn’t get someone in the family way in a matter of weeks. The dwarf turnaround time can’t be _that_ quick.”

Hawke waited on the docks, as much a part of the scenery as the familiar stain in the Hanged Man or the chains of the great gate. As achingly intimate and mundane as the rest of the home he called Kirkwall.

Varric elbowed Bran out of the way, and nearly into the water, on his way to greet her.

“Brought you a present.”

“Now that’s a scary thought,” she grinned, moving a corner of the blanket. Her face softened. “You brought home a mabari. Go on, put him down, put him down.”

“Her, actually.” Varric set the pup down on legs still unsteady after the long sea voyage. “Cullen had a litter. This one sort of...got attached.”

That was a half truth at least. He had been hoping when he'd lain eyes on them that the Commander would be willing to part with one. It didn’t take much convincing. Cullen had been at Adamant when Hawke’s own mabari threw himself back into the fray to give the Inquisitor and the others time to escape.

“Don't suppose you're looking to adopt?”

She chuckled, petting the pup behind her ear until she fell on her stomach. "That's not really how it works, but I appreciate the gesture."

“Being Viscount is very busy work, you know. I don’t have time to train a dog.”

“Probably should have thought about that before you decided to take one on in that case.” She chuckled, rolling the mabari onto her back and tickling her stomach, a lighter brown than the dark of tuft of her back.

“It was meant to be a gift for you.” He raised his hands in the air. “Lift your spirits somewhat.”

Hawke stilled for only a moment, but it was just long enough for Varric to notice.

“Spirits.” She grabbed the pup, shoving it squarely at his chest. “Lifted.” Her eyes met the creature’s, and she seemed unable to fight the smile that came to her face. “Somewhat.”

* * *

Hawke wasn't the same after…

He let the thought hang.

They--he and she--had always slotted back together easily, so it took him longer to notice. He knew their time apart had been as taxing on her as it had been on him. The hiding, the running, the _not knowing._ She hated waiting, hated inaction. The call to arms was like a balm, at first, but he saw the cracks in stages. She was more quiet, drifted off somewhere, while the Chargers laughed around her. A drink in one hand, Sera collapsed over her lap, and her face still as a stone when everyone was passed out, and he came to help her find her room (again). Varric thought back; wanted to blame Adamant, the explosion, Leandra. After so many beatings, someone is bound to break.

So Hawke wasn’t the same after _everything_. How could anyone be?

“Maybe you should have brought back a baby.”

Fenris’ voice cut through Varric’s brooding, and the irony of that fact alone struck him dumb.

“What?”

“A baby,” Fenris repeated. “She may have preferred a baby to another mabari.”

“You think she feels like I’m replacing Sarge?”

Fenris shook his head. “If you insulted her, she would have said so. Hawke isn’t exactly reticent.”

Varric lifted a shoulder.

“Hello, hello!” Merrill’s voice came from the door of the suite and, in the space between breaths, Varric found himself engulfed between two spindly arms. “Varric! Hawke told me you were home!”

“The big ships didn't give me away?” He laughed, pulling away.

Her smile didn't falter. Reliable Merrill. “Welcome home.”

* * *

He considered going to the Viscount’s Keep briefly before remembering the mountain of paperwork that likely awaited his arrival. Suddenly a trip to the markets seemed much more palatable (even if it meant shopping with Merrill who he could admit to spoiling on occasion). Fenris was not so inclined, leaving from Varric's suite in the opposite direction. The rest of the day passed in a blur of new purchases and ended in the Hanged Man.

 _Just like old times_ , he thought, looking around, _with a few notable adjustments._

Varric could feel the spaces of missing people. Others filled their chairs now. Orana had stayed, and he knew she taught music in the evenings. A Qunari named Ornul, quickly on his way to becoming the first in the guard, sometimes liked to join them for a round. Serendipity loved to drop in and remind them to live a little louder. Mostly it made him miss Isabela.

Some things blessedly remained the same.

“Aveline, Donnic,” Varric nodded at the two as they entered through the front like respectable folk.

“Varric. Bran may secretly love it when you shirk off, but I have weeks-old requests piling up waiting for the Viscount’s seal.”

“Can't you stamp them?” Aveline give him a look specifically created for him since the Viscount’s crown had been placed on his head. It promised nothing good. “All right, I'll get to them first thing tomorrow.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” She smirked. Donnic pulled a chair out for her to sit, and she tossed him a smile over her shoulder.

“It's not all my fault,” Varric said, motioning to the mabari who was making it her business to inspect the newcomers. “I came down with a sudden case of pet ownership.”

“That's not how Hawke tells it.” Aveline crossed her arms.

Varric waved her off. “It's complicated.”

“Have you chosen a name?” Donnic lowered a hand to scratch the mabari under her chin.

“You should name her after one of the characters in your books!” Merrill leaned over the table in her excitement.

“I was going to go with Fen’harel, but the Seeker thought it might be inviting trouble.” He didn’t point out that, at the time, he had planned for Hawke to pick a more permanent name.

Merrill pursed her lips. A moment later, her face cleared. “What do you think of Ghilan?”

“Ghilan is very pretty, Daisy.”

“It means guide.”

Varric tilted his head. Currently the pup was trying to bite at her tail, mostly succeeding at stumbling over her front paws. “I don’t think so.”

“Kallak means war in dwarfish.” Donnic provided in what he probably thought was a helpful voice. “At least...Gegar says that’s what it means.”

Varric snorted. “Definitely not.” He crossed his arms as the pup fell on her belly again. “Trip.” He decided with a nod.

“That’s awful.” Aveline made a face.

Merrill giggled. “No, it’s cute.”

The mabari (Trip, he mentally corrected) stood and stared at him from round black eyes before sitting squarely on her bottom.

“Do you like Trip?” Varric asked her. She barked once, a small yip, though loud for her size, he reasoned, and let her tongue hang out. “She likes it.”

Whatever Aveline was going to snipe back with was cut off by the announcement that Hawke and Fenris brought in with them.

“Serrah Chelsren now has a _full_ roof over her head,” Hawke said, coming to stand behind Aveline’s chair.

“For all that the withered old bean cares.” Fenris started to veer left, towards the bar.

“Fenris is angry because she only offered to pay for _my_ drinks.” Hawke said through the side of her mouth, but her eyes were dancing.

“ _I’m_ the one who had to hear her evangelizing all week.” He half-turned back towards the conversation. “Maker this, Andraste that.” He lowered his voice, “You'd think at least one benefit of the Chantry’s destruction was no more bloody proselytizing.”

“You don't really get how proselytizing works yet do you?” Hawke chuckled. “Go on, you can have mine.”

Fenris shook his head but took her coin nonetheless and continued his march away from the group.

“Oh hello, you.” She bent at the hips to pet Trip, who was trying adamantly to crawl up her trouser leg.

“Trip.” Varric uncrossed his arms, setting his hands on his knees with a grin.

“Trip, is it? That’s lovely. Perfect for a clumsy little bit like you.”

Aveline rolled her eyes. “Well of course you’d like it.”

* * *

“I'm not walking back to Hightown.” Hawke fell backwards onto Varric's bed.

He separated them into categories, his home at the Viscount's Keep and his true home at the Hanged Man. Certainly he had an impressive set of rooms in Hightown now, but in his mind, the soft red of the Hanged Man would always be _his_ room. His friends must agree with the mentality as he'd often come back to his suite to find one or more of them sprawled lazily across a chair or taking a quick nap. Hawke was particularly fond of crashing after late nights. But thinking about it now, she’d likely use any excuse not to stay in her near lifeless estate.

Varric stared at his desk and groaned. The papers had found him here as well. He pulled out his chair and his spectacles and spread them out more evenly across the wooden surface.

“Surely not.” Hawke sat down, staring incredulously.

“Might as well get a head start.”

She shrugged. Varric felt a bump against his shin and looked down. Trip had finished her inspection of the room and had settled beside his foot. Her tail thumped once when he looked down before she lay her head on her paws.

Hawke was digging through Trip’s bag at the end of the bed. “Someone got spoiled today.” She rooted around a little more, and the room lapsed to a comfortable silence as Varric turned to his work. Deep into his work, he thought it prudent to check if she had fallen asleep (he'd left a ‘silent’ Isabela unwatched too long before with disastrous results) only to find her staring at him from the bed. "When Trip’s a little bigger she can have Sarge’s things, if she likes them.”

“Thanks, Hawke. That's…” Considerate seemed to fall short. She was always that. This spoke of the many moments their small band had bequeathed a token or trinket over the years. It wasn't unusual. They had been giving little pieces of themselves to each other for years, Hawke most of all. “Thanks.”

She smiled, seeming to understand, and began pulling away one of his blankets to make a proper pallet for Trip beside the bed. She reached beneath her blouse, pulling it up and off and tucking it into one of the corners.

Varric put away his glasses and parchment, watching her with a small frown. “I like that one. Don't ruin it just yet.”

“They're _my_ clothes.” Hawke tilted her head back to chuckle. “Besides it looks better off.”

He snorted, throwing what he hoped was one of Isabela’s old chemises at her face (Maker had she taken the entire bottom drawer while his attention roamed). After her decency was restored, he sat on the edge of the bed nearest to her, Trip following a step behind. The mabari nosed at her pallet only a moment before diving in snout first and finding a comfortable spot burrowed halfway beneath Hawke’s blouse.

“Dwarf after all.” He chuckled. “Maybe she is mine.”

Hawke leaned forward, laying a hand over his. “I meant what I said before. I appreciate the gesture. I'm just not ready to take care of something...living right now.”

“House plant?” He said, turning his palm up and interlacing their fingers.

“You jape, but I feel safer with buildings at the moment. I'll let you know when I graduate to gardening.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” She took a deep breath. “Besides it's late. And according to our Captain, you have a long day of work ahead of you.” Her wink was exaggerated enough to make him smile.

Hawke was still out-of-sorts, and despite his disappointment at her reluctance to share, he was equally relieved. She was right about one thing, he did have a long day tomorrow. And he was tired.

“Hey, Hawke?” Varric said after Hawke had settled on the bed. Hawke stopped punching his pillow into a more amenable shape to look at him over a shoulder. He could see her confusion lit dimly by candlelight. “Anytime. You know that right?”

Her face softened into a rare, buttery smile that she quickly hid into the fabric below her.

“Of course, you big softie.”

* * *

With feeding and teething and feeling as though he constantly needed to watch her, by the close of a third week with Trip, he was beginning to reconsider Fenris’ proposal with some seriousness. A child wouldn’t have been easier, but with the amount of work he was putting into her, he may as well have taken the plunge and adopted.

“A mabari can take care of itself in a lot of things,” Hawke said, when he told her all of this, “you just mollycoddle, as always.”

“ _Mollycoddle_?”

Hawke put a finger to her chin, as though genuinely contemplating. “Worry? Pamper? Spoil rotten? You’re not raising a house pet, you’re raising a war hound!”

Trip turned at the sound of her laughter, and Varric watched her plant face-first into the ground.

“Good time to have one of those,” Hawke finished quietly, and Varric saw her eyes were focused firmly on her feet. He didn’t know what to say to that, and so kept his own attention on Trip, still regaining her balance. The muscles between his shoulders tensed, begging him to move forward, but Hawke’s words kept him still.

She was right. He was raising a war hound.

And, after a few moments of sniffing at whatever it was that had caused her to stumble, Trip looked up, tongue lolling happily as ever, and bounded over to them in an almost rabbit-like hop. He reached down to pet her, whispering congratulations, though most of them for himself.

Varric turned his face up, but Hawke was no longer silently staring at her feet, her eyes towards instead towards the docks. He followed her line of sight.

“Is that the _Siren’s Call_?”

* * *

Fenris had beat them to the docks, and Varric snorted at his mock-distress. Through some feat (and a testament to her physical prowess), Isabela had managed to climb onto his back, clinging to his neck in a playful combination of hug and wrestle and now refused to be shaken. At the sight of them she let go, kissing the crook of the elf’s neck with a wet smack.

“Hawke!” She lifted Hawke into a hug and held her so tightly that Varric was sure he heard a crack. When they pulled away, Isabela placed a hand against Hawke’s left cheek to kiss her right, then her lips.

“Isabela! What are you doing here?” Hawke touched her now rosy cheeks, from running or pleasure, Varric wasn’t sure. He stepped forward, wrapped into his own comfortable hug. “I thought you were in Antiva for another month!”

“I heard the news!”

“News?” Varric searched for what she could mean and came up with nothing. Kirkwall had been...unusually quiet.

“You know! You and Hawke, the baby? I brought wine to celebrate.” She held up a bottle as if in evidence.

Varric and Hawke exchanged a look.

“Well let me see the darling.”

Hawke bent to pick up Trip beneath her haunches, holding her up at eye-level for Isabela to see. After a tense moment, Isabela let out a breath.

“Well that's about what I was expecting to be honest.” She slid her eyes to Fenris. “You weren't very clear in your letter.”

He narrowed his eyes. “How did you get Varric and Hawke had a baby out of anything that I wrote?”

“I may have skimmed.” She waved a hand. “Though Josie is very happy for the two of you. You may want to write some...corrective letters.”

Varric groaned.

Hawke held up a hand. “I’m sorry. You were expecting our baby to look like a mabari?”

“I heard Varric, Hawke, and baby. I was expecting a tiny hairy creature, yes.”

Hawke threw back her head and laughed.

* * *

The Amell Estate was dark and had gathered dust on even the lower shelves, confirming Varric’s suspicions of how little time Hawke actually spent in the house. She looked happy to be here now, sat in the center of the second level’s main room, a map spread between Isabela and herself.

“I can’t find a focal point.” Hawke’s eyes roved over the map.

“There isn’t one.” Isabela settled a finger on three different spots, one after the other. “The Inquisition has scouts stationed in areas where we know the Veil will be taken out.”

“Do we know how?” Merrill leaned forward in her seat, eyeing the areas with interest.

“Please don’t ask me the inner workings of ancient elven magics. Dorian uses very big words.”

She pulled out a letter with the broken seal of House Pavus, handing it to Merrill. “It suffices to say a door opens more than one way.”

“Where will the people of Kirkwall go when this begins?” Varric asked.

“Nowhere,” Fenris said from his spot by the window. “Nowhere will be safe if this is true.”

“I agree.” Aveline clasped her hands behind her back. “Better not to cause a panic.”

“I wonder if that's how it will look.” Hawke turned to Varric, the only of them who had truly spoken with the Dread Wolf and called him companion. “A door. Maybe something like the Breach?”

“There were no accounts at The Crossroads about what it...looked like. To them.” Varric swallowed.

“I hope it’s a bit like those explosions in the sky last All Soul’s Day. Solas could at least give us a party.”

“Fen’Harel,” Merrill corrected quietly.

“Does it strike anyone else as odd that _we’re_ the ones planning for the worst?” Fenris pushed off the window with a growl.

“We're used to things blowing up in our faces.” Hawke grinned. “Frankly I’m tired of walking into the explosion.”

“We’re not the only ones, dear.” Isabela said. “The Inquisition has their alternate plans to be sure.”

“It does little to steel me.” Fenris crossed his arms.

“Nor I.” Merrill dropped her head. “Even with all of this, that we might lose?”

“Kitten, a storm may inch across the sky,” Isabela replied in low tones, lifting Merrill’s chin to meet her gaze, “but all the planning in the world won’t stop a ship from breaking on the rocks.”

* * *

They stayed later, talking about more pleasant subjects than war, and each found a place to settle in the big, rather less empty estate. As promised, Trip was set up in the middle of a large pallet that had once belonged to Sarge. Varric stretched out on the couch nearby to keep an eye on her. She still had a nasty habit of putting things in her mouth that were not to be eaten and, stocky Fereldan war hound or not, a moldy mushroom was a moldy mushroom.

He jerked awake to the feel of two large paws on his stomach, trying to recall having drifted off in the first place. Trip held his gaze as he cleared the sleep from his eyes, one and then the other.

“What? Are you thirsty?”

She whined low in her throat, pushing off of him. He sat up, watching her walk towards the stairs and rubbing the soreness from his stomach. She was a small, weighty thing.

“Where are you off to?” he asked, when he caught up to her at the bottom of the steps.

Trip ignored him, taking the stairs in little leaps, sometimes using her back legs first. It was amusing for all of two minutes, but his tiredness eventually got the better of him, and he carried her the rest of the way to the top.

He heard the small sounds coming from Hawke’s room before Trip reached the door and sat before it.

“Hawke?” He knocked. “Trip wants to see you.”

“It’s open,” came the muffled response.

Her room was just as it had been, before she’d left Kirkwall the first time. The only difference he noted was a small collection of books that Cassandra insisted Hawke take with her when she left Skyhold. Unlike Varric’s own collection, these appeared nearly untouched, but he knew he could open any one of them to find notes in the Seeker’s hand scribbled on the margins (and likely the only thing Hawke _had_ read). He was pleased they seemed to have a special place of honor in her room, that the Inquisition had brought her something good. Hadn’t broken what was left of her.

Hawke herself sat in the center of her bed, wiping at her red face. She had obviously been crying and saw no point in keeping it hidden.

“She must have heard you,” Varric said. Hawke nodded, helping a still-whining Trip up onto the bed with her. She crawled into Hawke’s lap and curled into as small a ball as she could, settling her head onto Hawke’s knee.

“Oh, okay, come here.” Hawke leaned over the mabari, kissing the top of her head.

“Want to talk about it now?” Varric leaned against the door, shutting it softly.

Hawke looked at him rather accusingly for someone with snot hanging from both nostrils. Varric grabbed the only chair in the room and pulled it closer to the bed so that he could sit facing her. The longer she held Trip, the more she seemed to relax. Or perhaps she was falling asleep. She laughed when Varric asked her as much.

“This is what I did with Sarge...when I was on the road alone.” Varric wanted to know which time but refrained. “Mabaris aren't your pets; they're your partners. I'm never going to have another one.”

“I know.”

“He was there,” she sniffed, “to be there when the rest of you couldn't. Or shouldn't. When it wasn't safe. When _I_ wasn't safe. Then he died and...I just started coping. Alone.”

“Do you feel like you’re coping now?”

“I feel like I’m never going to get the chance.” She laughed, a little hollow noise. “There’s always something, right?”

“Ain’t that the truth.” He scooted closer until his knee knocked against her thigh.

“Before I was Champion, before I ever came to Kirkwall. The army, losing Father...Mother, Carver, tch, Bethany.” She said the names, softly, like a prayer. “It feels strange, going through this without him.”

Varric leaned across the bed, a hand on each of their necks, and let her cry.

* * *

Isabela carried letters and promises back to Antiva, and life resumed.

Trip tended to follow Hawke on the days that Varric had council meetings or anything else the Champion considered ‘tedious’. As if adopting a similar mentality to Hawke, the mabari would snore loudly enough to disrupt any such endeavours and, while entertaining, it wasn’t entirely productive for the Viscount.

Varric found Hawke reading the margins of one of Cassandra's books in his study, Trip gnawing on a bone he didn’t remember purchasing and, therefore, refused to think about.

“The day I’ve had,” he said, dropping into a chair across from Hawke. She snapped the book shut and threw it over her shoulder, ignoring his glower.

“It’s barely noon.”

“I need a drink.”

“Hanged Man?”

“You,” he pointed at her, grin so wide his cheeks ached, “you have great ideas. This is why we’re friends.”

“Honestly, Varric, your standards are so low it makes you ridiculously easy to please.” She laughed, standing and dragging him out by the elbow.

* * *

“So who was it today? Filthy peasants? Righteous mages?” Hawke pulled Trip up to sit on her lap. It was taking a little more effort these days, he could tell by her grunt. “Oh? The Tal-Vashoth? They’ve been quiet for a while.”

“They’re always quiet. I’m not blind, I know it’s everyone else who causes them trouble.”

She grinned, running a hand down Trip’s back.

“Blighted Dwarves.” He narrowed his eyes at the back wall of the Hanged Man. Hawke raised a glass in sympathy. “The Kalnas haven’t had a word to say to me, going on a year now. Suddenly they’re all _aflutter_.”

“Can’t imagine what about.” Hawke giggled _, actually giggled,_ at his expense.

Varric raised his own glass to his lips and took a long drink. “Oh can’t you? Seems Rivani isn’t the only one who wanted to offer her congratulations to the ‘happy couple’. There was a line, none of them nearly as happy as she.”

“They live in Kirkwall.” Hawke stared at Trip then to Varric. “Do they think we’re _hiding_ an actual child?”

“Whatever their _thoughts_ , their words were loud and savage.” Hawke raised a brow and Varric shook his head. “I honestly didn’t know there _were_ so many slurs for half-breed. And I write!”

She scoffed. “I hope you kicked them back to the Guild.” Her mouth turned up at the corners. “Or had Aveline do it.”

“It didn’t dignify a rejoinder,” he said. “Though that would have been something to see. No, I spent my day turning down the subsequent marriage proposals this mess produced.”

“Am I glad I don’t have to deal with those anymore!” She threw her head back in a long laugh.

“No, you just make me do it for you,” he groused. “It doesn’t concern you, how easily everyone believes we just...had a baby?”

“People have babies all the time.” Hawke turned in her chair. “I’ve helped deliver two myself. Bethany wasn’t much prettier than Trip, so I can tell you the confusion is warranted.”

“That is very clearly a mabari.”

Hawke bent to cover the pup’s ears. “How _dare_ you speak about our beautiful daughter that way!” Trip tilted her head, pulling away from Hawke’s hands and barking twice. “See? You’ve upset her now.”

Varric sighed. “I’m sorry, Trip.”

Her tongue lolled, and he reached out to scratch behind her ears, one after the other. She sniffed the drink in his other hand, taking a tentative lick around the rim.

“You’re far too young.” Hawke wrapped an arm around the pup’s chest, pulling her back towards her.

“And with our genes you’re predisposed.” Varric raised a brow. “Corff! A bowl of water, please?”

* * *

Aveline had a schedule she kept to. With emergencies, she was on the scene, and anything that had to be relayed to Varric would come through another guard or on a later round through her. They were both patient where it counted; it’s why they worked so well together.

What this meant was she, as Captain, handled her guards and he, as Viscount, handled the city, and they rarely interrupted whatever menial tasks they set before themselves.

When she made a walk to the Keep outside of her rounds, he worried.

“Thought I should deliver this personally,” was all she said, handing him a letter with the Inquisition’s seal.

“Uh oh.” He shook it open and scanned the first few lines, recognizing Cassandra’s small scrawl. “How much do I owe this time?”

She shook her head. “They're coming here.”

Varric sat up straighter. Trip lifted her head from her place on the floor, raising a paw to his knee. “Already?”

“They weigh anchor next week.”

Varric fell back with the letter in his hands, not bothering to examine its contents. “Well, all right. I'll let Bran know.”

“I thought it was a bit soon. Apparently war doesn’t follow a timetable..” Aveline offered a wan smile.

“Who knew right?” He smiled back. “Who’ll it be?”

“Small groups at first, only two, with the Lady Seeker and the spirit Cole to lead.”

A Seeker and a spirit where the veil is thin. No soldiers, at least. He found his tension draining and, sensing this, Trip seemed to uncoil. “It'll be good to see them again at least.”

“Nice to finally put some names to faces.” Aveline’s smile, he found, was more genuine this time.

* * *

“Nice ship.” Varric said to Cassandra by way of greeting.

“The second of the Most Holy’s fleet.” Was she actually preening?

 _“Knugt?”_ Hawke said.

Cassandra’s brows drew together, her voice exasperated in the practiced way of the long-suffering. “She was going to christen it the _Nug Dumpling_. We managed to dissuade.”

“Because a pun is so much better.”

“I refuse to ride around in a vessel called dumpling!” Cassandra hissed.

“Lady...Seeker!” A voice called from the ship, struggling between each word. “Please...control your beast!”

Cassandra turned an annoyed gaze upward. She had taken one of Cullen’s mabaris as well, Varric knew, and it looked to be currently enjoying the trouser pants of one of the scouts. She let out a sharp whistle, and the furry hound barrelled down the gangplank towards her.

“Trip’s sister,” Varric explained in a low voice. “Where’s Cole?” he asked, loud enough for the Seeker to hear.

“Sleeping away from the sun and salt. Apparently the sea did not agree with him.”

“Poor lad.” Hawke winced in sympathy.  “I’ll see if Merrill has anything for him. Trip and...”

“Marielle.” Cassandra said, her cheeks coloring slightly.

“Marielle,” Hawke drew the name out, grinning wickedly, “can come with me. Stretch her legs, let you get settled.”

Varric spoke after Hawke had rounded the corner, when he was sure she was out of earshot.

“ _Marielle_?”

“I enjoy her character!” Cassandra said defensively.

“Oh, I _bet_ you do!” Varric snorted. “Come on, Seeker. Let’s give you a proper Kirkwall welcome.”

* * *

"May I have some water?"

Varric started at Cole’s voice, right beside his ear, before settling back down in his place on the grass. “Feeling better, kid?”

“I prefer to travel by land,” Cole said, his tone almost petulant.

“So I’ve heard.” Varric laughed, filling one of the glasses by his hand from the water pitcher and handing it to Cole. He took it with a grateful smile.

They were in the gardens of the Amell Estate, too long untended but still covered by beautiful trees. Cassandra and Hawke were watching the two mabaris tumble with one another on the ground, unguarded fondness lit on their faces.

“They miss their siblings.”

“It’s natural.” Varric said when it became clear Cole wasn't going to elaborate.

“I don’t understand,” Cole pursed his lips, “Bethany’s alive.”

“You miss people when they’re gone.”

“She misses her like she misses the dead,” he said. “Like you miss Bartrand and Cassandra misses Anthony.”

Varric considered for a long time before he said, “Maybe you should talk to her about it.”

Cole gave him a searching look. “She may not want to.”

“Then you don’t,” he said. “It bothers you to see her in pain?”

Cole nodded.

“Yeah. Bugs me too, kid.”

* * *

“The Champion is...different,” Cassandra said, taking in all that Kirkwall’s Lowtown market had to offer (which amounted to not very much of value).

“Yeah?” Varric said, noncommittally.

“Is she unwell?”

“She’s in good fighting form if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I know she _can_ fight, Varric.” She let out a breath. “I am unsure if she should be doing it anymore.”

“Glad we’re finally agreed on that subject,” he grumbled. An image of Hawke rose to the front of his mind, and by the Maker, she _did_ look tired.

“We had no plans to use her outside of Kirkwall. The assets the two of you provided have been valuable in their own right.”

“Then what are we talking about?” He pressed his lips together into a thin line.

“I am merely expressing concern for a friend, Varric.”

He bit back the first comments that rose to his lips and threatened to escape. _She’s not your friend. You almost got her killed! Why are you dragging her back into this anyway?_

He remembered the books on Hawke’s shelf, the tiny notes in the margins. The patient lessons with a bastard sword during Hawke’s stay at Skyhold, something Hawke never managed to master even under Aveline’s tutelage.

He remembered leaving Hawke in the Fade with only Alistair and their partners, the faithful mabari. More loyal than he, it seemed.

“Thanks, Seeker.” Varric grabbed her hand, squeezing it briefly. She looked down at him, her scar set deeper in the low light of the market. “She’ll be fine.”

* * *

Whatever Cole said to Hawke clearly had the opposite effect he had intended.

When Varric found her at the Amell estate, she was folding and packing at what was, for her, a languorous pace.

“You're leaving.” Varric stared at the pack on her bed.

“Bethany wrote a month ago. She arrived safely at Weisshaupt. She says that even with Blackwall, the Wardens aren’t being as cooperative as she’d hoped.”

“Weisshaupt,” he repeated flatly, sitting on the edge of her bed. “You told me, I quote, ‘that place reeks of shit and despair and I shall never step foot there again.’”

“Bethany may have more steel in her spine, but she’s never been a master negotiator. Figured I’d lend baby sister a hand.” Hawke closed the flap of her pack, cinching it shut. “Besides if this thing is happening as quickly as Cassandra thinks it is, if something goes wrong-”

“I understand, Hawke. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“No, I do.” She made a face like she’d eaten something sour. “It’s...good for me.”

He laughed loudly. “Who told you that?”

“Cole. I think. He’s difficult to understand.” He made a noise of agreement. She took a steadying breath. “But he was right. Bethany _isn’t_ dead. I’m being selfish. Amputating now so it doesn’t hurt when…”

“I understand,” he repeated, reaching up with a thumb to smooth the lines on her forehead. “Does anyone else know?”

“Aveline, of course. She’d flay me if I didn’t give her time to put together some sort of _horrendous_ gift basket for my sister. And Merrill’s coming with me as far as Tantervale. Supply run, she claims.” He pulled his hand away, and they shared an indulgent smile. “I’ll tell Fenris when the sun’s risen.”

“Forgetting someone?”

“Couldn’t you tell?” Hawke bit her lip. “Twas my dastardly plan to have you walk in and figure it out yourself. Saves me the trouble of deciding how best to tell you.”

“I wasn’t talking about me, Hawke.” He motioned to the door where Trip was lazily scratching behind an ear.

“Oh! Trip, come here.” Hawke laughed, squatting and opening her arms. Trip dropped her foot and ran to Hawke, nearly bowling her over in her excitement.

Varric grasped her left hand where it was balled in Trip’s fur, unclenching her fingers and laying it on his neck. “Kirkwall…”

“Will be fine without me. And so will you,” she tilted her head, almost mocking, “for a little while.”

“You sure about that?” He snorted.

“Always am.” She wrapped her fingers more firmly around the side of his neck. “Besides, it's the end of the world. What choice do we have?”

* * *

Varric offered the Seeker and Cole rooms of their own at the Keep suited to their taste, but the two seemed comfortable staying in Hawke’s home, even with its owner notably absent. Varric would find Trip and Marielle curled together in Sarge’s old bed before the big fireplace. Cassandra used Hawke’s stationary to send her missives, careful not to break the tips of her old writing utensils (until Varric caved and bought her a brand new pack). Cole had the entire cellar organized into some sort of healing unit, and Merrill was there every day, teaching or learning depending on who needed the lesson. One day, Bodahn greeted Varric at the door, Sandal further inside enchanting weapons for the Inquisition as though he had never left his tiny corner.

And, like that, the Amell Estate was full of life again.

 _Would it have been like this, then?_ He thought. _If I had just told Cassandra where she was?_ He remembered the long road to now. _Doubtful._

Throwing his duster across the back of the couch (and ignoring the stern look from Bodahn), he headed up the steps to what was once Leandra’s room. He heard the telltale thump of paws that signalled Trip had risen and was following dutifully behind him.

_You just wish she were here, softie._

After Leandra died, Hawke had gathered everyone to clean out her mother’s room. There were an impressive amount of dresses and perfumes to deal with. Hawke’s new fortune had bought her jewels, and Leandra’s own hand had left half-finished paintings.

She wasn’t able to step into the room, not even to look at it, that day or any other after it.

Varric had been tasked to finish the job before Hawke returned.

 " _Just toss it all,” Hawke said, throwing her pack over her shoulder, gaze resolutely avoiding the door at the end of the hallway as it always did._

_“Surely not all of it.” Varric gave her a hard stare._

_After a moment of toe-tapping, crossed-armed silence, she relented with a sigh. “Fine. Use best judgement.”_

_“Don’t I always?” He teased. She leaned forward, kissing his forehead, his cheek, his neck._

_And then she was away._

He sat on the bed looking around at his progress. Bits and bobs in boxes, dresses arranged by color and style. When she was ready, and she may be one day, they would be waiting for her.

He walked to Hawke’s room, the one he had claimed for himself on the nights he stayed, and set about getting ready for sleep. His eyes were drawn to the letter on her desk, and he carried it with him to the bed, patting the space beside him in allowance. Trip settled at the end of the bed, snout resting on still-growing paws.

_How's my daughter? Still spoiled-_

“She means you,” Varric waved the parchment vaguely in Trip’s direction, and she let out a satisfied yip. He continuing reading halfway down the page.

_Bethany is well. I missed her...I didn’t let myself remember just how much. It hurt to feel it. Now that I’m letting it happen, I’m feeling all sorts of things. I miss Kirkwall and our friends. I miss you and Trip. Maker, I miss you._

Varric lay back, lifting an arm for Trip to settle into the pit of his arm and let the rest of her words curl comfortably around him.

 

**One Year Later**

Hawke stepped off the _Knugt_ with a tiny, squirming bundle in her arms.

Varric lifted a corner of the blanket and stared for a long moment.

“A nug?”

“Found this little fellow wandering off by himself, if you can believe it.” She scratched under the creature’s chin. At least...Varric _hoped_ it was its chin.

“I can,” he said flatly.

“He’s so quiet and sweet. No wonder Leliana’s fond.”

“Like she needs another.”

Trip bounded down the length of the dock, running into the back of Varric’s knees and falling backwards before regaining her balance.

“Hey, you!” Hawke shoved the nug into Varric’s arms, bending to pet the mabari, no longer a pup.

“How is Sunshine?” Varric set the nug down next to Trip, and the two creatures stilled before engaging in a thorough examination of one another.

"Bandaged, awake, and taint-free." Hawke said when it seemed no bloodshed was imminent. “But if Aeducan is any indicator, she’ll be abed for another few days at least.”

“I bet she was happy to see you after,” he coughed, “everything.”

“Ecstatic,” she said sardonically. “She thought I was Darkspawn. Had I known her throwing arm had improved so drastically I would have left the room entirely.”

“A bruised shoulder is better than whatever she could have done with magic.”

“Fire I can handle. Dragon-slayer, remember?” Hawke’s face dissolved into unclouded bliss. “They’ll let her travel when the medicine’s worn off, and she can finish her recovery here, at home.” She laughed. “Home. Sounds odd, doesn’t it?”

“No, Hawke,” Varric drew her in, arm firmly around her waist, “it sounds perfect.”

* * *

In front of the fire, Trip curled around the smaller animal, drooling onto the nug’s head with each heavy exhale.

“We're keeping him, aren't we?” Trip placed a paw over the nug’s head as if to solidify the point.

“I like Ripper for a name.”

Varric threw back his head and laughed.


End file.
